


What You Answer To

by withthekeyisking



Category: Batman (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Identity Porn, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Secret Identity, because apparently i can't write superbat without pining, superbat exchange 2019, the author writes two purely fluffy things in a row, the batfamily is filled with trolls, what is happening to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: When Batman tells Clark that he’s considering sharing his secret identity with him, the Kryptonian couldn’t be more pleased.That, of course, hasnothingto do with Clark being invited to Wayne Manor to interview Bruce Wayne and his family...right?
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 65
Kudos: 1275
Collections: Superbat Exchange Winter 2019





	What You Answer To

**Author's Note:**

> A pinch-hit gift in the 2019 Superbat Exchange!

Clark is not a fan of Gotham.

Not in the way that most people dislike the city, where they complain about the crime and grime and corruption (though those are, of course, issues Clark notices). No, Clark hates the city for a unique (and probably pathetic) reason:

The fact that this is Batman’s city, a city Batman hates him entering unsupervised, a city Batman loves more than just about anything and is worried about Clark destroying if he breathes a little too hard. Gotham is cold and cruel and his friend loves every piece of it, which _sucks_ for Clark because it means every second he spends in Gotham is a second he’s anxious.

Clark can control his powers. He’s been doing it for _years_ by this point. But there’s something about Batman’s flat stare that makes Clark hesitate before grabbing a doorknob in Gotham, lest he accidentally crushes it. Because, of course, Batman would _somehow_ know about it.

Clark’s about 80% certain that Batman knows exactly what he’s done to Clark about making him hate Gotham, and is probably amused as hell by it. Diana certainly was, when Clark confessed this whole mess to her.

So, when the waiter hands him a glass of champagne, Clark cradles it delicately, his heartbeat picking up for a moment in fear of breaking it.

 _Fuck_ but Clark hates Gotham.

He doesn’t even really remember what the function is that he’s here covering. It’s not actually _his_ story anyway, it’s Lois’, but she needed a plus one and Perry wanted an extra set of eyes so here he is, spending his Friday night brushing elbows with Gotham’s elite in his ill-fitting suit and crooked glasses.

“It’s not going to bite.”

Clark startles a little, and then plays it up for his persona. It’s odd—he really hadn’t heard the other person approach, despite his enhanced senses. Must’ve been too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

He turns around the face whoever it is, and his eyebrows go up upon seeing Bruce Wayne, standing quite close and smiling at him with amusement. The billionaire looks as handsome as he always does, wearing a suit that probably costs more than the Daily Planet and a charming smile that is used to making people swoon.

Clark hasn’t the faintest idea why the man would approach him, but—well. Lois would kill him if he didn’t try to get a quote, or something.

“P-pardon?” Clark asks, not understanding the comment.

Wayne gestures to the glass of champagne in his hand, still being held extremely delicately. “It’s not going to bite,” the man repeats. “Not like the hard stuff might.” And then he winks, taking a swing from his own glass of champagne.

Clark stutters out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment like the bumbling farm boy he’s supposed to be.

“Right,” he says. Stupid Gotham. Stupid Batman, making him anxious without even being in the same room as him. “Well.”

Wayne doesn’t look bothered by his stilted, awkward response, continuing to watch him with shining, amused blue eyes and a curl to his lips that Clark can’t quite decipher, but probably means nothing good.

“Clark Kent,” Clark finally says, clearing his throat, “Daily Planet.” He offers his hand, and Wayne takes it, shaking firmly. He has callouses Clark isn’t expecting, but the reporter did hear somewhere that the billionaire likes extreme sports, so that’s probably it.

“Ah, yes!” Wayne exclaims. “Mr. Kant. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s _Kent,”_ Clark corrects in mild exasperation, though not expecting anything better from the flighty playboy. “And you have?”

Wayne nods, hums. “Of course, of course. Lois has mentioned you in passing. And Tim, well, he’s got more of a head on his shoulders than I ever will and he thinks you’re a great reporter.” He laughs then, taking another sip from his glass and finishing the champagne off.

 _Tim_ is probably Timothy Drake, one of Wayne’s adopted sons. Shaping up to be the heir of Wayne Enterprises, or so the business section writers tell him. Yes, Clark wouldn’t be surprised to know that Tim has more brain capacity than his adoptive father—not that it’s hard.

“That’s very kind of him,” Clark says with a slight smile.

Wayne chuckles again and opens his mouth to reply, when suddenly a black-haired, blue-eyed boy appears at the man’s side. Considering that’s the descriptor for all of Wayne’s sons, it isn’t much of a deciding factor for which of them it is. However, the tanner skin makes Clark lean towards naming this one as Dick Grayson, Wayne’s eldest.

The boy— _man,_ really—offers Clark a polite smile, and then says to Wayne, “B, there’s some girl bugging Damian hoping to get your attention—normally I’d let him handle it, but..." He shrugs a shoulder.

Wayne laughs, loud and delighted, and offers Clark a salacious grin. “Duty calls,” he drawls, and then vanishes into the crowd without another word. Clark watches him go with vague incredulity; no matter how many people describe the billionaire like this, _nothing_ compares to actually meeting the man in person.

“You work for the Daily Planet, right?” Grayson asks, drawing Clark’s gaze back to him.

Grayson’s a handsome man, all things considered. Very different in looks than his adoptive father, but both of them have their crowds of admirers, though Grayson certainly has a better reputation. Being an accomplished police officer rather than a brainless playboy would do that, Clark supposes.

“That’s right,” Clark agrees.

Grayson examines him for a few seconds, in a way that makes Clark feel as though he’s being appraised, and then he smiles that charming Wayne smile he probably learned early on in his career in the Gotham spotlight.

“How would you like an exclusive?” Grayson asks, and Clark’s eyebrows shoot up. Lois is going to _kill_ him.

“W-what?” Clark asks, exaggerated his shock. Grayson’s lips twitch. “An exclusive for what?”

“We’ve been talking about having a reporter over to the Manor,” the younger man explains. “It’s been a while since we’ve done something like that, and we’ve agreed that it’s probably time. We’ve been discussing options, and you’re pretty great at your job.” He smiles, an airy little thing. “Or so Timmy tells me, at least.”

“I—I mean,” Clark stutters, and he hears Perry’s voice in his head, practically exploding at how he’s hesitating. A look inside Wayne Manor? Something that no one has gotten to do in _years_ because of how protective Wayne has been of the most recent additions of his family? “I—sure! Sure, yes, definitely.”

Grayson nods and offers his hand to shake, and Clark takes it. “Great; we’ll be in touch.” He turns to leave, and his smile turns amused as his eyes flick downward. “The glass isn’t going to bite, you know.”

Clark hates Gotham.

* * *

It’s not even a minute later that his Justice League alert goes off, letting him know that Superman is needed.

He heads for the exit, sending a message to Lois as he goes and avoiding her when he sees her searching for him. He’ll pay for that later, but for now he changes quickly and makes his way to the Watchtower.

When he reaches the main conference hall, he finds J’onn and Batman already there, bent over something on the table and talking in low voices.

J’onn makes sense; he was on monitor duty, probably spotted whatever it is that is calling them together. But Clark _knows_ that Batman had other engagements tonight (non-superhero related engagements) because the man told him as much—albeit very vaguely—a few days ago, the last time they saw each other. Which means it makes no _sense_ for him to have received the alert and made it here before Clark, who has superspeed.

“How is it that you always get here first?” Clark asks as he approaches, shaking his head fondly. Both Batman and J’onn look up, and Clark sees a flash of a smirk on the human’s face before it blinks away into his regular blank expression, his attention turning back to whatever it is he been examining.

Clark feels warmth fill him, knowing that Batman had _allowed_ him to see that smirk. Clark has worked hard over the years to earn Batman’s trust, dragging each small concession out of him like pulling teeth. Six years ago, that small smirk wouldn’t have been visible at all, Batman keeping any amusement he felt (and anything _else_ he felt) to himself. But now...

“I get the alerts first,” Batman tells him, and Clark raises his eyebrows. Batman isn’t looking at him, but Clark knows he knows about the expression anyway.

“Of course you do,” Clark sighs, exasperated and amused and far too fond, and sees the smirk flit across Batman’s face again, a little bit softer this time; it makes Clark’s heart flutter.

Over the years, Clark has been exceedingly grateful that Batman doesn’t have superhearing.

“So what’s going on?” Clark asks, barreling past his ridiculous feelings, just as the doors open behind him, admitting Diana, Oliver, and Hal.

Batman straightens. “We’re being invaded.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Oliver drawls, “Well, it must be Tuesday.”

Hal snorts and throws himself down into a chair, kicking his feet up on the table. Clark knows Batman well enough to see the twitch in his fingers and know what it means, so Clark says, “Hal, sit like an actual adult.”

The look the Green Lantern sends him is disgruntled, but he does as he’s told, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. Clark nods, satisfied, and turns to look at Batman once again.

“So. Invasion?”

* * *

After everything is said and done, all the members of the Justice League working together to (once again) fight off an alien invasion, Clark finds Batman in the Watchtower monitor room, hard at work.

Clark smiles slightly, a little sad; everyone else—including the people way down on Earth—is celebrating the victory, but Batman is still doing what he always does, double- and triple-checking to make sure the victory really _is_ a victory, that they didn’t miss anything, and that their defenses are solid for the next time some alien race tries to invade Earth.

“Anything off?” Clark asks as he approaches.

Batman doesn’t answer, but Clark doesn’t take offence to it, simply steps up beside his friend and waits.

After two minutes, Batman says, “The scans are clear.”

Clark nods. “That’s good. Does that mean you can leave without the world falling to pieces?”

Batman shoots him a dry look. Clark just smiles in response.

Predictably, Batman turns his attention back to the computer in front of him and begins to run another scan, probably with the smallest of variations, just to be sure. Clark knows that Batman’s paranoia has saved them on numerous occasions, but sometimes it does feel a little ridiculous.

Clark pulls over a chair and takes a seat, determined not to leave until Batman does so he can make sure the man actually goes home to get some rest.

“How long have we known each other, Kal?” Batman asks after a little while of companionable silence.

Clark furrows his brow, glancing over to the other man. Batman still has his attention fixed on the computer fingers typing away and not losing their rhythm.

It’s a strange question, simply because Clark _knows_ that Batman more than likely knows how long they’ve known each other down to the last second, unlike what will be Clark’s general ballpark. That probably means, Clark supposes, that the question is simply a way to start a specific conversation, and not an actual inquiry.

“Just about ten years, I’d say,” Clark muses, and how wild is that.

Batman makes a vague sound of agreement, and then doesn’t say anything else. Clark waits patiently, as he’s learned to do with Batman over the last decade. No one can _make_ the Dark Knight speak, and getting frustrated over that only leads to more frustration. Clark can be patient. Clark can wait for Batman for _days._

“I wanted to say that I—appreciate our...friendship.”

Clark startles, turning to look at Batman. The human hasn’t changed, still focused on the screen in front of him, fingers not faltering against the keys, expression not changing even slightly. But the stilted words show his awkwardness, and thus his sincerity. Nothing makes Batman awkward like honest conversations.

“I appreciate our friendship too,” Clark says earnestly, far more easily than Batman got the words out. “I mean, you’re probably my _best_ friend.”

Batman’s head tilts, just enough that Clark knows the man’s looking at him now, and so Clark just smiles, soft and real.

“Does it bother you that you don’t know the _name_ of your so-called _best friend?”_

Clark can only stare back for a moment, so utterly caught off guard. It’s been _years_ since the last time he brought up Batman’s civilian name, and his desire to know it. He’s always wanted to know, always wanted to be gifted that honor from the man who knows everything about him, but he respects that this is something Batman cannot—for whatever reason—share.

It has been literal _years_ since Clark’s been _bothered_ by the absence of a name. Sure, he’s longed for it; longed to see the entirety of Batman’s face, longed to know the color of his hair and eyes. Longed to visit the place the man calls home, as Batman has seen Ma and Pa’s farm. Longed to talk to his kids about normal things and not vigilante business. Longed to see the scars that must litter his body, and help him fix up new wounds that arise.

But _bothered?_ No, Clark’s not bothered by the fact that he only knows the man as Batman. The only thing Clark is bothered by is his insistent and never-ending _feelings_ for his best friend, feelings that he would never even dream of forcing on the other man. No, Clark will keep his _longing_ to himself.

“No,” Clark replies honestly. “I mean, I’d always love to learn it if you ever want to share, but I don’t need to know your name to know _you,_ B.”

Clark waits again, while Batman processes and pretends to not be processing anything, typing away at whatever it is he’s working on now.

When the silence stretches on and on, Clark finally decides to prompt the other man. “What brought this on?”

After a few moments, Batman says, “I was talking to Nightwing the other day, and he made some comments about our partnership that pointed out the flaws in our current arrangement. He made a few points that were..." Batman smiles ruefully, "...rather accurate, if not entirely delicate. It made me examine quite a few things, including some of the things I do that I’m sure my kids would call hypocritical.”

“You don’t have to give me your name because you feel obligated to,” Clark says, despite how his heartrate has picked up at the idea of it.

“I know,” Batman replies immediately. “And I’m not. Giving you my name, that is. Or at least I’m not _yet._ It’s...complicated.” His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s frustrated with himself. “I don’t really know why I’m telling you this at all. I guess I just wanted to say—Well, I just wanted to communicate—”

“B,” Clark interrupts softly, offering his friend a gentle smile. “It’s okay. Don’t worry; take your time. I’m not going anywhere, and neither is your secret identity.”

Batman looks over at him, and there’s something fond in the curve of his lips that has Clark’s heart racing all over again. “Yeah, okay, Boy Scout.”

* * *

Four days later has Clark back in Gotham.

The Wayne name gets things done quickly, to no one’s surprise, and Clark had barely set foot inside the Daily Planet Monday morning before Perry was calling his name and telling him to start prepping questions because the next day he’d be going to Wayne Manor for lunch and an interview with the _entire_ family, something no reporter had gotten in _years,_ not since Tim Drake had first been taken in, before Jason Todd was found alive and the blood son arrived in Gotham and the other kids showed up out of nowhere to get adopted.

Frankly Clark thinks Bruce Wayne must have a gigantic soft spot considering how many kids he’s taken in over the years.

So now, Tuesday afternoon has Clark ringing the doorbell for an actual _manor,_ the kind that normal people only really saw in movies, and then had the door being opened by an actual _butler,_ because apparently those still exist in the twenty-first century.

“Hi,” Clark says a little awkwardly. “I’m—”

“Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet,” the butler finishes for him, accent upper-class British because of _course_ it is. “We’ve been expecting you. Please, come in. May I take your coat?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Clark says a little awkwardly, stepping inside and shrugging off his coat, juggling his bag at the same time. The butler’s expression doesn’t change, remaining calm and professional, despite how stupid Clark must look.

Clark clears his throat and thanks the man again once he’s settled.

“Of course, Sir. Now, if you’ll follow me, Master Bruce and the others are in the lounge.”

Clark does his best not to gape as he’s escorted through the halls, but it’s very hard not to. The entire building screams wealth and class and old money, and Clark—in his wrinkled, too-big suit—sticks out like a sore thumb.

As they approach a pair of closed double doors, Clark can hear a chorus of voices shouting and arguing. It’s only because of his superhearing that he picks up on the sigh from the butler next to him, and has to stifle a laugh.

The butler knocks sharply on the door and then pushes it open. “Mr. Clark Kent here to see you, Master Bruce.”

“Who?” the voice of Bruce Wayne replies, and Clark hears a couple snorts of amusement.

Even the butler sounds dryly amused when he replies, “The reporter that was invited, Sir. Master Richard did remind you this morning.”

“Huh,” Wayne says in surprise. “Well, alright, let him in.”

“Certainly, Sir.” The butler looks back to Clark to gesture him in through the doorway, and says, “I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Kent.”

Clark looks at him in surprise, but the older man is already heading back down the hall and out of sight. Taking a deep breath, Clark enters the room.

It’s absolutely packed with people, is the first impression Clark gets. Everywhere he looks seems to be another teenager, and Clark _knows_ (or is, at the very least, pretty sure) that Wayne doesn’t _actually_ have this many adopted children. He’s...pretty sure. Maybe.

“Mr. Kant!” Wayne calls out, getting to his feet with a charming smile. “How good to see you again. Please, do come in, sit down.”

Clark ignores the fact that the man has once again mispronounced his name, and enters the room, sitting down in the open armchair closest to the door, what seems to be the only piece of furniture not occupied.

“Thank you for inviting me over,” Clark says, because Ma and Pa raised him to have manners. “Your house is beautiful.”

“Don’t inflate his ego,” a girl with blonde hair drawls, sending him a smirk, “he doesn’t need it.”

Clark recognizes Tim Drake next to her, who swats the girl lightly on the arm in reprimand, but he doesn’t actually look offended. Neither, Clark sees, does Wayne.

“Yeah, what did _Vicky_ compare it to in her most recent article?” Dick Grayson asks in mock-thoughtfulness from where he’s sitting on top of a large wooden desk. “Something unoriginal like _Mount Rushmore,_ right?”

“Mount Vesuvius,” the youngest of the bunch corrects, who Clark _thinks_ is Damian Wayne but doesn’t know for sure, considering how little the boy is in the public eye.

Grayson snaps his fingers, pointing at the boy. “Yes! _That_ was it, she said Bruce’s ego is the size of Mount Vesuvius.”

“I’m surprised she even knows what Mount Vesuvius _is,”_ another boy snorts, someone Clark recognizes as Jason Todd, the son believed to be dead only to come back. He’d been in the paper for _weeks,_ his face almost everywhere you turned.

“Could say the same about all of her readers,” someone chimes in.

“Could say the same about Bruce!” another adds, laughing.

“How good to have you all under my roof again,” Wayne sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Clark thinks this is the most human the man has ever seemed, surrounded by a million things that could pay Clark’s rent for years and a million kids who clearly love him. This picture is infinitely more charming than any smile Brucie Wayne throws to his adoring fans out in public.

“Not to be rude,” Clark says hesitantly, once more drawing all of the attention to himself. “But out of the—” he does a quick count, “—nine other people here, how many are actually your children?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Grayson tells him.

Clark frowns. “How?”

“Well,” Drake drawls, “are you referring to _biological_ children?”

“Or from a legal standpoint?”

“How about emotionally?”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Wayne grumbles, throwing up his hands, and Clark works hard to suppress a smile. He probably fails. “Everyone out, this has officially shown why we don’t do interviews like this.”

“But Bruce you can’t just _cancel_ on him, he’s already here!” Grayson points out, gesturing to Clark.

Wayne meets Clark’s eyes, and for some reason the only thing Clark can think of is, _Oh, so they’re blue. And his hair is black._ He doesn’t know where the thought came from, and it’s gone as quickly as it came, but it makes his heart speed up.

“Would you like to go to dinner, Mr. Kent?” Wayne asks. “Escape my annoying brood of children?” His voice is smooth and his smile that absent Wayne smile, but there’s an awkwardness to the way his holds himself all of a sudden that has Clark wanting to say _yes._ “I have a feeling we’d have a lot to talk about.”

Clark hears a few of the kids snicker. He gets the distinct impression he’s missing something.

He glances around at the crowd of people and thinks, _So this is his home._

“Sure,” Clark agrees, and the sudden curve of Wayne’s lips is fond.


End file.
